


just one safe place

by sunflower_diode



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, have you ever considered tender homoerotic haircuts as a form of healing from trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_diode/pseuds/sunflower_diode
Summary: After 30 years in Angband, Maitimo's once-beautiful hair is an unsalvageable tangle, and the only person he will trust to cut it is Findekáno.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	just one safe place

It had been two months since Findekáno had cut Maitimo off the face of Thangorodrim, and one month since he had been politely shuffled out of the increasingly uneasy Fëanorian camp, when Tyelkormo and Carnistir marched around Lake Mithrim to the gates of Ñolofinwë's camp. The hosts of Ñolofinwë had been watching the brothers' progress increasingly warily for hours now, and by the time they arrived, half the populace was gathered near the gates, staring expectantly at the brothers with hard eyes.

They ignored the general mood as only a Son of Fëanor could do. "We have need of Findekáno," Tyelkormo announced bluntly.

Findekáno went to step forward from the group of his father and his father's advisors, but was stopped by his father's quick hand against his forearm. He noticed Carnistir's eyes flick to the movement, before they resettled on Findekáno's face. "What for?" Ñolofinwë asked.

"Maitimo has need of him," Tyelkormo said.

"What for?" Ñolofinwë repeated, pointedly.

"We would prefer that it be discussed with Maitimo present." _And never with you_ went unsaid.

Findekáno unobtrusively shook off his father's hand and stepped forward. "I'll go. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just your illustrious self," Carnistir said with heavy irony. As one, the hosts of Ñolofinwë bristled. Findekáno ignored this all and walked between the brothers to the gate.

"After you," Tyelkormo said.

* * *

Findekáno walked into the healing tent set aside for Maitimo and it was only through tight control that he did not immediately burst into tears. Since he had been ejected from the Fëanorian camp, the only word on Maitimo's condition had been terse messages sent around the lake consisting only of the sentence: "He continues to recover." In the absence of any response to his repeated messengers and his mounting anxiety, he had worked day and night at his house's camp, not turning away even the most menial of tasks, in order that he might wear himself down enough to be able to snatch a few solitary hours of nightmare-riddled sleep a night. Seeing Maitimo now was near overwhelming.

Maitimo looked like he had not healed a bit since Findekáno had pulled him onto the eagle. He was still swathed in the same number of bandages he had been after the Fëanorian healers had set upon him the first time, and he was still so thin he looked hollow. Findekáno had never seen an elf so frighteningly gaunt before, not even on the Helcaraxë. However, Maitimo must have improved some; his mattress was now propped up so he was lying back in a semi-seated position, and he had the faintest colour returning to his washed-out features. His remaining brothers were arrayed around his bed, communicating by their expressions a range of emotions from barely-veiled fury to sheer misery. Carnistir walked to resume his habitual place in the tent leaning against a table as Tyelkormo unnecessarily announced, "He agreed to come."

Maitimo, who had been reclining with his eyes closed and a pinch between his brows, snapped his eyes open and, upon looking at Findekáno, smiled faintly but warmly. It only emphasized the ghoulish hollows in his cheeks. His brothers' frowns deepened dramatically, and the weight of the air in the room suddenly seemed to press down heavily on Findekáno's shoulders.

"Findekáno," Maitimo said, and Findekáno could only think of him saying the same on Thangorodrim, quiet but heart-renderingly shattered. Findekáno knew he should feel guilty, _had_ been feeling so guilty he could burn with it, but hearing the world of difference in tone from then to now... he could only feel overwhelmingly, desperately grateful. He smiled automatically, helplessly back at Maitimo. Maitimo brightened, some tiny spark in his eyes coming to life.

Curufinwë scoffed in disgust and strode furiously from the tent. Makalaurë, from his chair on the left side of the bed, rolled his eyes.

"Have you told him _why_ he needed to come yet?" he asked.

"I wasn't going to discuss it _there_ ," Tyelkormo said.

It was Maitimo's turn to flick his eyes skyward. Findekáno's heart leaped in his chest at the familiar gesture, product of six little brothers' worth of exasperation.

"You are making this a needlessly overwrought production," he said. "I _will_ be going through with this, whether Findekáno helps or not."

"What do you need help with?" Findekáno asked.

"I am cutting my hair," Maitimo said. The temperature of the tent seemed to drop, but Findekáno didn't understand why.

"You... wanted me to help trim your hair?" he asked. Maitimo's long hair had snarled in thirty years' captivity; when Findekáno had spotted him on the rock face, its deep red colour had been almost entirely obscured by mountain dust and Angamando's ash, and it hung greasy and matted in lank hunks about his emaciated form. The healers had washed it and, electing to leave the rest of its care for when his injuries were less pressing, had tied it up and away as best they could. It looked much the same now.

"I am cutting my hair," Maitimo repeated. "I am not brushing it out or oiling it or trimming it. I am _cutting it all off_. I owe you more than I can ever repay, but I would ask you for your help once again in this. I... lack my usual coordination, and hold no one in greater trust." Makalaurë visibly flinched, but Maitimo ignored him, eyes staring intently out of his skeletons' face at Findekáno.

_"Why?"_ Findekáno breathed in quiet horror.

In Aman, Maitimo's hair had been a marvel. Thick, glossy, waist-length, and the colour of garnets in Laurelin's golden light, Findekáno had been enchanted by it. So had many others; Maitimo had always deftly deflected the admiration (and sometimes, advances) with his usual skill. As finely, remarkably beautiful as all his features had been, many had considered his hair to be the crowning glory of them all.

Now, scarred, emaciated, Maitimo's half-dead eyes looked into Findekáno's steadily, implacably. "There is no saving this, and I do not want to. It is too damaged, and I will not waste a minute attempting to salvage what little remains. I would ask you to help me."

There was a pit in his stomach, gaping, nauseous. "Please," he breathed, not sure what exactly he was begging for. "Please, don't." He knew, distantly, that Maitimo's brothers were making various expressions around him, but his vision seemed to black at the edges and tunnel on Maitimo. "Please don't ask me. It's not too damaged; we can heal it, it's worth the time. You're worth the time."

"Oh, dear Findekáno," Maitimo murmured. He was too sharp, even dulled with medicines and 30 years' torment, to miss the metaphor Findekáno had accidentally created. "It's better to cut it off and let it be healthy." He had a faint, wry twist to his lips. Findekáno's nausea doubled.

"Maitimo. Nelyo."

Maitimo examined his face. "The rest of you, out. I will speak to Findekáno alone."

His brothers didn't move. Maitimo raised an eyebrow. Findekáno found himself suddenly reminded that Maitimo was now High King of the Ñoldor. The brothers shuffled awkwardly in place before beginning to file out, suitably cowed for the moment.

Makalaurë was the last to leave, taking a last long and considering look between Findekáno and Maitimo before exiting the tent with a whisper of fabric.

"You _can_ come closer," Maitimo said. Findekáno walked slowly over to sink into the seat on Maitimo's left, his customary chair before he had been sent back to the south shore of the lake.

"Nelyo..." Findekáno started. There was a special joy, even as upset as he was, to be able to speak to his closest friend again, to taste his nickname on his tongue. "Why?" he asked again.

Maitimo took his time arranging his words before he spoke. "Nothing can make it feel safe, anymore. Even if you brushed it so gently I never felt a tug, and washed it with the sweetest oils, and braided it up and put jewelled ornaments in it and told me as you used to how beautiful it was... I would still only feel their hands and claws in it. There's... as much as I wish it otherwise, _he_ 's affected every part of me. But this small thing, I can affect for myself."

Findekáno, who had been sitting rigidly, slowly relaxed his body towards Maitimo, looking at him properly. Frail he was, but steady. Scarred, but as determined and unbowed as he had ever been, or even moreso. Somehow, after what Findekáno had done, still willing to trust him with his safety, with his feelings. And Findekáno, after all this time, still could not truly deny him anything.

* * *

Findekáno walked slowly out of the tent, facing the arrayed brothers waiting just outside.

"I need a pair of scissors," he said.

* * *

It had taken them some time and careful rearranging to figure out how Findekáno could reach Maitimo's hair while keeping Maitimo mostly supported, but eventually they settled together on the bed with Maitimo in the vee of Findekáno's legs, some pillows between Maitimo's back and Findekáno's chest.

Findekáno had the scissors loosely in his right hand, on top of the blankets. He was only restraining himself from his urge to turn them anxiously in his hand by his fear of touching them at all. Maitimo's left hand settled lightly on Findekáno's and threaded their fingers together delicately, squeezing almost imperceptibly.

"Please," he said, hushed, halting, even after everything slightly choked on his pride. "I can't... there is no one else I will allow to hold a blade to my head. And I cannot... I cannot do it for myself."

Findekáno bowed his forehead onto Maitimo's thin shoulder, the faintest touch, too afraid, still too newly aware of how vulnerable Maitimo could be, to lay any weight there. "I cannot harm you again," he confessed into the bones.

Maitimo squeezed his hand again. "You have never done so before, and you will not now. This is... treating a harm already done. Like back _there._ " He paused. "I... you know I could never blame you, Finno."

The nickname wrenched something in him. After all these decades of pain, after the sundering of their houses, after Thangorodrim, after the Helcaraxë, to still be able to hear that nickname in that beloved voice... it was a small spark of hope flickering to life, something tight and anxious unspiralling. Findekáno took a firmer grip on the scissors.

"Okay, Nelyo."

He lifted his head, carefully grasped a small section of hair, raised the scissors. Settled the blades a few inches from the scalp. Looked at the tangle, reconsidered. Settled the scissors a bit further up. Took a deep breath. And cut.

The chunk did not fall to the bed. The bottom was too tied in with the rest of the knot of hair to really move at all.

Slowly, implacably, whispering reassuringly, watching Maitimo's pulse leap hummingbird-quick in his neck even as he breathed slow and controlled, Findekáno worked through cutting off the rest of Maitimo's hair, removing limp hanks when he was able and laying them carefully on a side table, until eventually the whole mass was free and Maitimo's red hair was scarcely as long as that of a newborn babe's. Findekáno let the hand with the scissors come back to rest on the bed, unable to relinquish his grip on them, as he continued working his other hand through the remaining inch of hair, tracing abstract patterns on the scalp. At some point, his reassurances had become a litany of praises, all the things Findekáno had ever admired about Maitimo's spirit, his passions, his small and lovely quirks. Maitimo had allowed his head to lean back onto Findekáno's chest, eyes closed, pulse slowing, a tiny smile fixed on those newly-scarred lips. Findekáno felt abruptly as though his heart might overflow.

His ramble trailed off to a halt. He tilted his head to very softly rest his cheek on top of Maitimo's head. Maitimo shifted his hand to rest on Findekáno's knee.

"Thank you," Maitimo eventually whispered into the silence. "It feels... like a freedom."

The cut, despite Findekáno's best efforts, was uneven, and looked incredibly strange besides that; Findekáno had never even heard of such hair on an adult elf before. Maitimo's brothers were probably going to take one look at it and try to kill Findekáno for his role in it.

And yet, to see Maitimo with some measure of peace... to hear him describe himself as "free" with such simple reverence...

Findekáno could not find it in him to do anything but love it.

**Author's Note:**

> title from siken ("you are jeff") because that's what gays do when they're out of title ideas. i wrote this in june 2019, before we all had to start giving our roommates bad pandemic haircuts and the concept became no fun anymore.


End file.
